


Bind Me to the Tide

by missmungoe



Series: Shanties for the Weary Voyager [17]
Category: One Piece
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Romance, Romantic Soulmates, Soulmate AU where they feel each other's pain, Usual Crew Shenanigans
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-20
Updated: 2020-11-20
Packaged: 2021-03-10 00:29:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,758
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27634802
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/missmungoe/pseuds/missmungoe
Summary: She was thirteen the day it happened, old enough to know what a soul-bond was, but not to fully understand what it meant, to bind two souls so thoroughly as the Fates were said to do. Every new thread they measured was tied to another; a knot that ensured their paths would cross, somewhere along the line of their lives. It was the stuff of romances. Or it would have been, if it hadn’t been for an unfortunate side-effect.For as long as Makino could remember, she’d been feeling the pain of another as her own.
Relationships: Akagami no Shanks | Red-Haired Shanks/Makino
Series: Shanties for the Weary Voyager [17]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/581281
Comments: 37
Kudos: 213





	Bind Me to the Tide

**Author's Note:**

> A light warm-up to the Mnemosyne update! I've been talking about writing a Soulmate AU for Shanks and Makino for ages, and a while back, someone on tumblr suggested the trope where soulmates feel each other's pain. Needless to say, I was sold.
> 
> I hope you like it!

She was thirteen the day it happened, old enough to know what a soul-bond was, but not to fully understand what it meant, to bind two souls so thoroughly as the Fates were said to do. Every new thread they measured was tied to another; a knot that ensured their paths would cross, somewhere along the line of their lives.

It was the stuff of romances. Or it would have been, if it hadn’t been for an unfortunate side-effect.

For as long as Makino could remember, she’d been feeling the pain of another as her own.

It sounded worse than it was, put like that, but she’d been aware of it for so long that it had stopped being weird. It was just how things were, something everyone knew whose soul was bound to another’s, which barring a sudden and unexpected tragedy, included most of the general population. To know you were intrinsically bound to someone else’s soul was no more strange than the knowledge that you were eventually going to die; it only got weird if you started thinking about it too much, but then people had existential crises over less.

It hadn’t really affected her life that much, growing up. It was just a fleeting awareness, and the odd ache or twinge of pain she didn’t always know what had caused, phantom nicks and bruises she couldn’t see, but you got so used to them, you didn’t think about them any more than your own little hurts. And it had never been anything particularly serious.

She’d wake up sometimes, feeling seasick, like the room was tilting, but then she felt nauseated standing on the docks too long, so it wasn’t odd that she was so sensitive to it.

The worst physical injury had been two badly sprained fingers once when she’d been eight, which her mother had inspected and remarked with a huff, “Either he’s getting into brawls, or he’s a swordsman.”

She’d excused her from her chores and instructed her sharply not to strain it over the next few days. They weren’t really sprained, Makino knew, they just felt like it, but even without physical evidence, the pain was real enough.

Her mother had returned to her opening routines, muttering under her breath that if the lad ever showed up picking fights in her bar, he would have to take her on, leaving Makino cradling her hand, not even thinking about the pain now, only her mother’s words, and the vivid imagination they’d inadvertently spurred to life, but then she’d never been able to help it.

She’d liked that—a _swordsman_. Like the heroes in her favourite stories, sweeping in with silver rapiers to rescue a maiden in distress, or simply to fight for honour and justice. And it was the first time the idea of him had really taken shape: her soulmate, who might be a swordsman, and a dashing hero. And she’d had no romantic ideas, had been too young yet to imagine herself the maiden, or a heroine with her own rapier in hand, but she had loved the idea—that her lifeline should be bound to someone like that. It had been the first thing that had made him more than just a vague possibility at the back of her mind; something that made him feel real, like her.

She sprained another finger, a little later. Her left hand again, which made her wonder if that was his preferred one.

She tried to imagine what had done it, if he’d been training or if it had been an accident, but she always imagined him with a sword after that, and whenever she felt a twinge of strain in her left arm, she imagined that he was out there somewhere, fighting fierce and heroic battles. Unlike her, whose only battles were fought with the resident mop against her mother’s thinning patience, although a fiercer opponent was hard to imagine, at least for Makino.

When she was ten, she shared her theory with Suzume-baba, her mind full of adventures and ideas of brave heroes, but when the old woman let out a trilling cackle, her blush had been so scalding, Makino had for a moment wondered if her soulmate could feel it.

She couldn’t tell if her grin was mocking her or if she was just amused. “Swordsman, huh? Not a farmer? Might be a pitchfork he’s swinging around for all you know.”

Makino puffed her cheeks up, seized by the need to defend him. “He’s _not_!”

The old woman only shrugged. “You might be right, what do I know?” She peered down at her from the barstool. “But if he is a swordsman, he’s lucky.”

Confusion knitted her brows. Her kerchief was slipping, and she pushed it back into place. “Lucky?”

This time, her grin was sharp. “Aye. Or quick on his feet, otherwise I reckon you would have felt more than just a few sprained fingers.” When her face fell, the old broad’s expression eased a bit, not soft, but understanding. “Look at you, so crestfallen. I’m tellin’ you it’s a _good_ thing. If he’s a swordsman, you don’t want some amateur who couldn’t hold his sword correctly if it came with instructions on the hilt. Hell, maybe he’s a prodigy.”

Her face brightened, the earlier slight forgotten under that prospect. “You think so?”

She didn’t know if her look was wry or patient this time, as Suzume drawled, “No matter what I say, I can see your imagination has already taken it and bolted for the hills.”

Makino wasn’t listening. “I bet he’s really strong, if he hasn’t gotten more hurt!”

Her mother called her then, with an order to get the mop, but with her heart too light to be dampened by the prospect of chores, she skipped to answer. “Coming!”

The old woman watched her go, but Makino had already turned her back, and didn’t catch the look that flickered across her weathered face, there a moment before it was gone, and she downed her drink.

But she didn’t fear feeling his pain. Instead, the phantom sensations assured her he was out there somewhere. Not everyone got to meet their soulmates, but Makino felt confident that they would, one day. In the meantime, she would feel him, and wonder what he was doing, assured by the harmless sensations—a slight burn like someone had rubbed their fist over the crown of her head, or the sudden sensation of her feet being swept out from underneath her, and something connecting with her back, knocking her breath loose. Some mornings she'd wake up feeling miserable, with a blinding headache—the first time she'd thought she was sick, until her mother had taken one look at her and barked a rare laugh, and that had been her first introduction to what a brutal hangover felt like, and only her mother’s wry concession that she was too innocent to suspect of having indulged herself kept her from being punished.

But even inconvenient, the pains didn’t bother her. They were hers, allowing her glimpses of a different life, spun into being by her imagination as she mopped the floors of her mother’s bar, imagining the salt-swept deck of a ship, and rough voices calling to roll up the sails as she danced under rolling skies, the wash water from her upended bucket like a wave surging across the planks.

And the older she grew—and the more romantic her notions—the more she loved the idea of sharing that part of someone.

She’d often wondered if he made note of her pain, although doubted it touched his life in any considerable way. She’d never broken a bone, had never been seriously ill or otherwise injured herself in a way that might have been noticed, and her only hangovers had been his. Her pains were the small, everyday hurts of a gentle existence, slicing her finger cooking, or a burn if she’d been careless by the stove. She’d twisted her ankle once being late for her midday shift, running down the hill only to trip and tumble the rest of the way, and had cried the whole way back to the bar, Garp carrying her and attempting his best to soothe, with disastrous results, but her tears had turned to laughter, and her ankle had been healed within a day.

And she felt strongly, but she’d never felt pain that way, the kind that might have transferred. Life had treated her gently, with kindness and little sorrow other than of her own making, the tragic end of a much-loved book seeing her mourning for days, until her mother snapped at her to cease her exaggerated dramatics.

For most of her life, she hadn’t felt real sorrow. Not like he had, an anguish so profound she hadn’t understood what it was when it seized her, had been too young to understand what it meant, the day she’d cried and cried without knowing why, or for whom. It was the day her mother had worn a grave expression, when Party's had been full of patrons but empty of laughter, but Makino had been too young to understand what _execution_ meant, whispered under their breaths.

Only when she was older had she understood, burying her mother by the abandoned windmill where the wildflowers had overtaken the neatly tilled fields, when it had felt like her whole world was coming apart beneath her, and she’d cried so hard she’d thought her chest would cave from the pressure. She’d thought of him then, and had understood that the pain she’d felt that day had been loss.

But that was the only time she could remember feeling heartbreak from him, and it would be years before she felt anything but the usual hurts and aches, tracing the shapes of small, imaginary scars across her soft and unmarred skin, wondering what had caused them. His scars were hers, the sensations fleeting without a physical mark to remind her, but Makino remembered them all; had mapped them out, each and every one where she’d felt them on her body.

But she hadn’t considered the effects of more serious injuries, and had grown so comfortable with the idea of him as _untouchable_ , she hadn’t been prepared for it when it happened.

She woke screaming.

At first she thought it was just a nightmare, one so vivid she’d carried it with her into the waking world, but there was no relief as she resurfaced, the pain in the left side of her face acutely _real_ , and only growing worse where it bit into her skin, into tendon and _bone_ , the agony unlike anything she’d ever experienced, and she couldn’t hold back her terrified screams, her hands clawing at the place where the pain was coming from. It was like her face had been split open.

She felt the cuts in her skin, gaping and puckering, and the only thing that halted her screaming was when she bent over the side of the bed to be sick. But it wasn’t relief, and her hoarse cries choked on the vomit as she heaved painfully, tears streaming down her cheeks. In that moment, she thought she was going to die.

The sound of a door slamming open reached her, and then her mother was at her bedside, her white-blonde braid streaming behind her, and she didn’t hesitate as firm hands took her by the shoulders, but where Makino thought she would be angry or tell her to settle down, her mother only pulled her close and held her tightly.

“Scream,” she instructed, and the hard inflections of her voice broke through the sound where it tore from her chest. “It’s the only way to bear it.”

Makino did. She couldn’t _stop._ It ripped from her chest, hoarse and agonised wails, but when she tried to claw at her face, her mother held her arms down. Her brow and cheek felt like they were coming apart. “It _hurts_!”

Her mother said nothing, only endured the screams, and didn’t stroke her hair or kiss her forehead, but it was a gentleness that was unlike her as she sat there, and held her until she passed out from the pain.

—

She woke two days later with a burning fever. It took a whole week for it to break, and another for her to feel well enough to get out of bed, and when she did, Makino felt the change.

For the first time in her life, she was afraid.

—

He was _miserable_.

He’d been lucky with his soulmate, at least insofar as pain was concerned. Shanks couldn’t exactly voice his judgement on the first until he met them, but whoever they were, the bond between them had allowed him to live his life without complications. There’d been no major injuries of note, or anything that could give him an inkling of what kind of life they lived, just the usual stuff that everyone felt—a bruise he couldn’t see, fading quickly; a burn like he’d accidentally grazed the stovetop with his fingers; a sprained ankle once, but even that hadn’t lasted long.

He didn’t feel her often. Except once every month, like clockwork, when he could barely make it out of his bunk.

To his crew’s endless amusement.

“There he is!”

“Our ray of sunshine!”

“You're positively _glowing_ today, Boss.”

Stepping through the door to the galley, Shanks flipped them all off, and continued to do it as he made his way through the crowded compartment towards one of the tables, only to collapse on the bench with a sob. “Kill me.”

Ben only spared him a glance, used to this particular show, and said nothing, but then words were unnecessary when the slightest raise of a brow could convey so much amusement, although Shanks found precious little appreciation for it at present.

Only Yasopp showed understanding for his plight. “Feels like your gut’s being ripped out through your spine,” he said simply.

“ _Yes,_ thank you!”

He caught the grins from his crew, regrettably impervious to his look of betrayal, but he was so used to their entirely unhelpful reactions by now, Shanks didn’t even bother threatening to have them all walk the plank.

The persistent pain low in his abdomen felt like it wanted to claw its way through his stomach. Shanks stubbornly set his jaw against it.

But for all their casual disregard of his misery, someone poured him a glass of whiskey. It usually helped for a little bit, although the pain always lasted a full day and he couldn’t spend one day a month being blackout drunk. He’d already tried, but it just wasn’t sustainable.

“How are you feeling, Boss?” Lucky asked, with more sympathy than the rest of them felt compelled to demonstrate.

His answer rose from where he’d buried his face in his arms, as he offered him a thumbs-up. “I want to die, but otherwise I’m swell.” Then with a pouting glare at Ben, “How can you act so casual seeing me in so much pain, you cur? You unfeeling _wretch_?”

Exhaling a curl of smoke, Ben spoke around his cigarette, “I’ve figured the day you stop moaning about it there’s cause for concern.”

Shanks stuck his tongue out. “I hope you eat those words when I’m dead.”

“From the melodrama, then?”

Flipping him off, Shanks downed the drink, although it would take another to dull the pain enough for him to feel a semblance of relief.

Turning his glass over, he thought of her, and wondered not for the first time how she was handling it. Probably better than he was, and he felt slightly foolish for his dramatics. “I don’t know why I’m complaining,” he said, grimacing as he shifted in his seat. No position was comfortable, and his lower back ached like someone had taken a baseball bat to it. “It’s literally the only time I can really feel her.”

The relative certainty of her sex had been revealed to him the first time he’d woken up in agony, although it had taken Doc a full check-up and a day spent rifling through his medical books to figure out what was wrong with him, before he’d given his diagnosis with a bark of amusement, a clap on the back, and a deadpan order of sucking it up, because those with actual wombs went through worse every month without bitching and moaning about it. Shanks had heroically tried not to bitch and moan after that.

Well. He’d tried to do it _less_.

He was strongly contemplating going back to his bunk to brood in peace when Yasopp spoke up. “Speaking of pain,” he said, his sharp gaze trained on his face. “Do you ever think about it?”

Shanks frowned at him, attempting to parse the words. He wasn’t at the top of his game today, but then the sensation of his stomach cheerfully tearing itself to shreds made it hard to follow the turns of the conversation.

Yasopp’s gaze shifted right. “That they’ll have felt…” He gestured to the left side of his face.

The reminder sobered some of his malaise, but Shanks didn’t reach to touch his scars, long healed, although he still felt them sometimes, and wondered if the soul-bond responded to psychosomatic pain.

He didn’t have to wonder if she’d felt it the day they’d been dealt to him.

“Of course I’ve thought about it,” he said, and his even tone held more regret than his earlier misery had.

He wasn’t going to lie and say it was the first thing he’d thought about after his injury, but then he’d spent a week fighting off a fever that had nearly killed him. But even while they’d been healing, he hadn’t really given much thought to his soulmate. For as long as he could remember, the soul-bond had been little more than a dim awareness, forgotten in the tumult of his daily life, and he hadn’t stopped to actually consider their existence, or that they were a living, breathing _person_ , with a life as rich and complex as his own. He’d been curious, of course, but his desire had always been for what was at his fingertips, preferring the tangible truth of a curvaceous figure and an ample bosom to the potential concept of a person who may not even be his type.

He hadn’t thought about her much, and not until after he’d started to feel her own pain, meaning the cramps from the literal ninth circle of hell, had the realisation fully hit him, that she would have felt all of his pain, too.

His stomach twisted for a different reason now, imagining it, and it was only made worse by the knowledge that it was the most pain she’d ever experienced. Whoever his soulmate was, she led a gentler life than his. All her pains were small, and bearable, even the godforsaken cramps, but Shanks would have taken them all and then some if it could repay her for what he’d put her through, knowing now what she must have suffered because of him. Because if _this_ was an indication of how strong their bond was, he could only imagine how she must have experienced the wounds that he still felt, years after the fact.

Yasopp made a short hum. “I rarely feel Banchina’s anymore,” he said. Shanks almost thought he looked disappointed. “But I’ve heard childbirth changes things for some women.”

His sigh rose from the cross of his arms where he'd hunched over the table. “Lucky.”

Yasopp's wistful look lifted with a grin. “Thinking of siring some of your own, Cap? I don’t blame you. It’s the best feeling in the world. Not the actual childbirth, though. They don’t warn you about the tearing.”

Shanks stifled a horrified sound into the table, and seriously contemplated the many merits of a life of childlessness, even as he said, “I’m too young to be a father.”

Yasopp only shrugged. “You’re twenty-four. Some people start even earlier.”

“I’d have to meet her first,” Shanks countered. Shit, the cramps were really doing a number on him today. “And that’s no guarantee she’ll want to bear my children.” Especially if the reason was that he hoped she’d stop having cramps. And still unable to stop thinking about the _tearing—_ Christ, just the prospect had him clenching—he wasn’t sure it was worth it. He’d take the murder cramps, thanks.

“There’s also her age to consider,” Ben said then. “She might be even younger.”

“How old do you think she is?” Yasopp asked.

Shanks groaned into the table. “I don’t know. I haven’t done the math.” He realised he sounded pathetic, but then he wasn’t exactly known for downplaying his suffering.

“When did it start again?” Doc asked, from further down the table. “The cramps. Three-ish years ago?”

Shanks thought about it, although it was a feat focusing past the pain, which seemed particularly vindictive all of a sudden. “Three sounds about right.” Thirty-six days of agony. Jesus Christ.

“Right. So her current age depends on whether she’s a late or an early bloomer,” Doc said, as Shanks looked up from the cross of his arms.

“‘Late bloomer’, what is this, sex education for blushing preteens?”

His cheek was ignored, as usual. “The fact that I have to give you this lesson tells me you didn’t get it when you were a preteen,” Doc countered. When Shanks only pouted, he continued, “Like boys, girls hit puberty at different ages, but it’s usually between ten and fifteen. Let’s say thirteen for the sake of averages. Neither early or late. And if she was thirteen three years ago, that would make her…”

Shanks stared into the air. “Sixteen,” he said roughly.

“Dude,” Yasopp breathed, with a shit-eating grin. “She’s just a kid.”

Several _ooohs_ sounded from around the galley, and, “Boss,” someone whispered, mock aghast. “You _cradle robber_.”

“Someone warn the poor maiden!”

“Lock up your daughters!”

Their laughter eased away some of the horror that had crept into him, even as he couldn’t drag his mind away from the possibility now that it had been put before him. He spared a fleeting prayer that the Fates’ knot would keep them from meeting for a few more years, at least until he felt like he could laugh about it with the same delight as his men.

But it was curious, that little flutter in his chest. And it was just a number, and that only an estimation based on averages which might not even be remotely correct, but it was something that made her feel suddenly real, and even more than the hellish cramps. It was the abrupt realisation that she was out there somewhere, living her life in parallel to his, even if she was potentially a worrying amount of years younger than him.

"She's probably hoping it'll be a dashing young lad," Yasopp said, with a look at Shanks. "And then she gets a scruffy old man."

"I'm sorry, _scruffy_?"

"The Fates can be cruel," Ben deadpanned, lighting himself a cigarette.

"There should be a pool!" shouted a voice from across the galley, to rousing agreement.

"There should not be a pool," Shanks countered, and was promptly ignored.

"I bet the sight of him sends her running."

"I bet he'll be so smitten by then, she's probably wise for running."

"I bet she'll wish she'd started running earlier."

"She'll have to run far to cover that age gap!"

More laughter, as Shanks shook his head at them, although couldn't help but think she'd be well within her rights to run, not necessarily from the sight of him—he wasn't scruffy; it was a _look_ —but because age-differences between soulmates was a well-known subject of not a small amount of controversy, and there were many whose paths crossed while their age-gap was considered problematic, if not straight-up illegal. It also didn't help that so many considered it the will of the Fates; as though believing it had been decreed by three old crones with far too much time on their hands somehow cancelled out the fact that soliciting a minor was a crime.

It was also the topic of several questionable works of literature, but they were stories whose morals most had forgotten, or they were simply glossed over for the sake of entertainment, but at least the law was written in plainer terms. And his history with the World Government’s charter was questionable at best, but at least where sex was concerned, Shanks considered himself an upstanding citizen, which was what eventually allowed his laughter to ease out of him, finding in their good-natured heckling the same knowledge, which was no doubt why his men felt comfortable making the jokes in the first place.

“I haven’t even looked at her yet!”

—

She was woken by a familiar pain flaring up in her face, and still half-asleep, the fear that seized her had her lurching upright, her heart vaulting into the roof of her mouth choking her gasp, and only touching shaking fingers to her cheek allowed it to sink back down, as a shuddering breath pushed through her teeth.

There were no marks, and only a dull throbbing remained, pulsing under her smooth skin, the phantom ache like the beginnings of a migraine. Her jaw creaked as Makino clenched it, willing it to subside.

Her nightdress was soaked through with sweat, clinging to her back, and she was shivering so much her teeth chattered despite how hard she’d set her jaw. The sky beyond her bedroom window was still dark, but knowing she’d get no more sleep tonight, she threw off the covers and went to draw herself a bath.

The scalding water helped, the gentle lavender scent rising with the curls of steam soothing her nerves, and bit by bit, the throbbing receded, first to an ache, then to a dull flicker, until she couldn’t feel it anymore.

She didn’t get out of the bath right away, her arms wrapped around her knees where she’d pulled them up to her chest, reluctant to go back to bed and the nightmares that might be waiting—the _grin_ she kept seeing, gleaming like a blade, and a loud, dark laugh that gripped her spine with fear even now, seizing her in place. And her imagination had always been vivid, but never like these dreams.

She wondered if it was him. That the owner of that terrible, gleeful laugh was the one her soul was bound to, and who she was reminded of every time her face flared up, the markings like they’d been carved into her skin anew. Some days Makino was so sure she wound find them if she touched her face, but all that would greet her would be her skin, smooth and unmarred, even as she would feel them, pressing over her brow, her eye and her cheekbone, and nothing she did could alleviate the pressure, no cool cloth or healing salve. There was no cure for this kind of pain, beyond severing the soul-bond.

She had begged for it, once. The weeks she’d spent recovering, waking up every night in a cold sweat, screaming from the imaginary blades cutting into her skin, she had _begged_ for it to happen—that it would kill him, the person responsible for her suffering, if only so she would stop _feeling_ him.

But it hadn’t killed him. He’d lived, and still did, and the bond remained, tethering them together across the seas, the reminder finding her with every twinge of pain in her brow and cheek, like someone had tugged sharply on a string.

She'd asked for it later, too. Privately to herself, she had hoped something would happen to him, so there’d be no more nights like this, waking in a cold sweat, that terrible laughter ringing in her ears, until she was afraid to go back to sleep.

But shame and guilt quickly sobered her, and even tired and terrified, it didn’t fall naturally to her heart to wish pain on someone else, and least of all death.

Lifting to her feet, she allowed the water to run down her body, the warm rivulets soothing her skin. She considered herself a moment, standing amidst the curls of steam, the body she knew in her sleep, bearing only the tender evidence of a gentle life, her soft callouses and hair-thin scars so fine they barely stood out from her moon-white skin.

She wondered what his body looked like.

The water sloshed loudly as she scrambled out of the bath, brutally dismissing the thought, although harder to dispel was the revulsion that curled in her belly, like she might be sick. She dreamed about that, too, although where she might once have imagined they’d be pleasant, a foolish girl’s daydreams of being swept off her feet and laid gently down by kind, strong hands, now all she felt was terror.

She was about to go back to her bedroom to get dressed, thinking she might as well get a head start on the day, to check that everything was ready before she looked in on her mother. Her lucid moments were getting fewer and far apart, but she always recognised her when Makino brought her breakfast.

But walking past the mirror, she stopped.

The steam from her bath filled the room, the condensation having left a layer over the mirror above the sink, but she saw them in her periphery where she stood frozen, her gaze fixed straight ahead. A dark red shadow across the left side of her face.

For a beat, terror held her captive, trapping her breath in her lungs, before a bubble of anger stirred under the surface, surprising her at first, before she embraced it, and she was so _tired_ of being scared of her own reflection, and didn’t think now as she turned with a _shout_ , her palm raised to swipe the condensation off the mirror, revealing her face.

Her anger faltered, and she watched as her features lost their fierce expression, finding no markings reflected back at her, only her face.

She stared at her reflection in the mirror’s clear surface. Eighteen now, she’d grown into her features, her large eyes and soft mouth, all of them familiar to her, even as she couldn't help the sense that it was wrong, that something was missing.

Touching her fingers to her cheek, she traced the smooth curve, but there was nothing but freckles dusting the gentle arch. No scars, even if she could picture how they would look, bisecting her eye.

She wondered what his face looked like, but instead of dispelling the intrusive thought, this time Makino followed where it took her, spurred by an almost perverse curiosity, as though encouraged by the visible assurance that her face was still hers, and bore no signs of his.

When she’d been younger, she’d dreamed about it constantly—that he’d be handsome, a dashing gentleman with a high brow and chiselled features, like the heroes on the covers of her books. That he’d sweep into her life with a smile that made her knees weak, the rugged swordsman with the impeccable manners, who in her imagination had been everything from a king in hiding to a scoundrel on the run from the law for some heroic deed, like stealing from the rich to give to the poor.

She had always imagined him as handsome, but what would a face look like that bore the scars she could feel so clearly, even so many years later? The ones that felt like gouges in her skin, carved so deep she wondered if it had shattered the skull beneath. Maybe it had even taken out his eye. She didn’t know who could have survived such an attack, but doubted the scars he’d been left with had left much else of him. And the more she thought about him, the more the face in her imagination changed—the sculpted angles turned crooked, misshapen, his once-handsome features corrupted, although deeper than even the scars was the expression she imagined now, the permanent distaste that must be on it, from the anger he must feel, making him uglier than even the scars themselves.

And this was a different fear than fear of feeling his pain; was one that woke her screaming for another reason, fearing that anger, and the hardness of his hands. A face like that must turn people away, and what did that kind of rejection do to a person, Makino had wondered, and more and more as she’d grown older, witnessing already from the patrons visiting her mother’s bar the entitlement of some of their male visitors—to her time, and her smiles, although all they'd gotten for it had been her mother tossing them out by the backs of their shirts screaming _she’s sixteen years old, you try touching her again and I’ll rip your eyes out and use your castrated balls as payment for the Ferryman!_

Men wanted things, Makino knew—and the more powerful the man, the more he felt was owed to him, and if he had been turned down by many before her because of his face, he might not be inclined to take no for an answer.

And with a soul-bond…

She didn’t want to know what he might do to her, if he felt the bond entitled him to her reciprocation. And the law was unambiguous, but that didn’t stop the criminals who lived outside of it, like the pirates used to taking what they wanted, especially those who felt it was owed to them. That the Pirate King’s declaration at his execution had been an allowance, granting them permission to plunder and rape to their hearts’ content. Piracy had grown at an alarming rate just over the last ten years. And she thought about it sometimes, working alone as she did, in the one land-bound establishment that could lure a pirate from the sea, and even if there’d been no such visitors to her port for as long as Makino had been alive, that didn’t mean it couldn’t change.

And now her mother was fading day by day, and there was no one to protect her but Garp, who visited only sparingly for Luffy, and she _hated_ that she had no power over this—that she couldn’t even say no to the bond, and didn’t want to imagine the day when she would have to say it to the one it belonged to, fearing that she already knew what his reaction would be. That he wouldn’t take her no for an answer.

It was its own kind of phantom pain, the fear that had her jumping at the sound of footsteps on her porch that she didn’t recognise, or whenever an unfamiliar ship was spotted on the horizon, before it inevitably continued around, to Goa Port. Because even if the pain of his scars faded, the fear remained, like the knowledge that all who were bound together carried within them: that their paths would one day cross, as the Fates willed it.

For most of her life, she’d wanted to know what his face looked like.

Now Makino hoped she never found out.

—

In the end, the Fates gave her one more year before she was faced with the meeting she had feared ever since the day she’d first learned the meaning of pain.

It was her first day of running the bar on her own, although she’d been doing it for a while already as her mother’s health had slowly deteriorated. But it had felt different, named as the proprietor now, not just a barmaid, and still reeling from her own grief, Makino had thrown herself headfirst into the challenge.

She’d counted on a lot of things happening—preparations she’d neglected in her hurry to get everything ready, a shipment she’d forgotten to place, or even getting no customers at all, so fast on the heels of her mother’s funeral—but had figured them into her plans, and had been confident she would make it work, no matter what unexpected problem arose. She had counted on things _not_ going smoothly, her first night.

She had not counted on the pirates.

They’d entered Party’s before she could even recover from the news of their arrival, and had given her no choice as they’d filed through the bat-wing doors and into her common room, a whole crew of men blocking her only exit, leaving her with nowhere to run. The afternoon sun poured through the windows, elongating their shadows, thrown large and imposing against the sage-green walls of her bar, only the counter shielding her from the advancing crowd, their voices as loud as their laughter.

"Easy, now! You're scaring the poor girl."

The warm-timbered voice lifted with ease over the din, a captain’s command compelling the sea to settle, even as eddies of good humour remained, but Makino wasn’t looking at the other pirates, gaze seized by the tall and broad-shouldered figure where it had stepped forward, and she knew him as the captain even before he’d tipped the brim of his straw hat back, revealing a wide grin set in a staggeringly handsome face.

She went cold all the way through her body, as though her very soul had stilled.

"Good afternoon, Miss!" the captain greeted, a heart-stopping smile proffered like a weapon in a duel. It pulled at his striking features, and she felt the familiar grip of fear where it seized her spine. "I take it you're the owner? Shanks is the name, and this rowdy bunch is my crew. Pleased to make your acquaintance!"

His smiling face looked out from under the brim of his hat, sculpted with strong angles and a high, beautiful brow. He had a straight, attractive nose and clear grey eyes, and a rugged black stubble covered his cheeks and throat, but where it might have held her attention captive, and for no other reason than the fact that he was breathtaking, she couldn’t see past the one detail that had seized her eyes over any other, even the startlingly red hair, as her gaze fixed on the left side of his face.

Right where three diagonal scars bisected his brow and cheek, straight across his eye.

She felt the responding _throb_ in her own, the reminder so sudden Makino nearly flinched back, and was glad she hadn't instinctively reached up to touch it. But even if she'd wanted to move, she couldn't, her whole body frozen in place, realising with sudden and absolute clarity just who she was looking at.

The pirates at his back found her reaction amusing, because she heard their laughter then, and thought she might have responded to that—that even terrified out of her wits, there was a part of her that would not condone the humiliation, or their mockery, when they were the ones who’d come unannounced into her establishment. And she might have answered him in turn, or with a remark that would have put him in his place, annoyed that he should be so careless about her distress, and the pristine state of her floors.

But looking at him, and the face whose shadow she'd seen in so many reflections, and countless nightmares, held above her as he held her down, Makino couldn’t muster a single word.

—

She was adorably skittish.

It had taken a surprising amount of cajoling on Shanks’ part just to get her to respond with anything that wasn’t her initial shell-shocked reaction. Not that he was necessarily opposed to cajoling, he happened to be a very proficient cajoler, but it didn’t usually take this much charm just to secure his crew tables for the night. Barmaids usually took a liking to him, and from a life spent travelling between the ports of the world, Shanks had known his share of tavern girls.

But he hadn’t wanted to infringe on her hospitality when she’d looked so terrified, although had prodded until she’d relented, with the crooked grin that always got him out of trouble and into most girls' good graces—and under their skirts, if they were so inclined.

This one was _not_.

She’d made it abundantly clear when she’d bid them a welcome that could only be described as aggressively polite, although her eyes hadn’t left Shanks, and her wary expression seemed to say she wasn’t convinced he wasn’t about to shuck his pants and commit an act of indecency right in the middle of her bar.

He wouldn’t, of course. He’d only take off his pants if she asked him nicely.

His crew had spread out, finding their seats around the tables as Shanks observed her fretting, before making a strategic retreat into the storeroom, although from the way she very deliberately avoided looking at him, it didn’t feel like she was escaping his crew as much as just him, specifically.

Stupidly intrigued and never one to be discouraged by a little healthy hostility, Shanks took his seat right at the counter where she could see him, and privately delighted in the little start she made when she emerged five minutes later.

“Hey,” he said, cheerfully. “Is this where you order?”

Not the least bit mollified by his cheer—if anything, it only made her more suspicious—she eyed him warily. And she had the whole counter between them, but still felt the need to reach for an empty serving tray, as though keeping it in her hands provided her with some assurance. Shanks didn’t question it; he’d seen more traditional weapons used less effectively.

“What would you like?” she asked him at length. She had a lovely voice, Shanks thought. Soft and feminine, like her, but with a clear lilt that chimed with surprising authority, even if it was a gentle one.

His rakish grin left no doubt, but when nervousness flashed through her dark eyes, he let it drop. He’d hoped from her initial shyness that he might startle out a flustered smile, but he hadn’t meant to make her genuinely nervous he was going to try something.

“What do you have?” he asked, his even timbre holding no teasing this time, and he saw how it made her shoulders unclench a bit, even if she still looked visibly tense. “For reference, I’m partial to a good single malt. Or a line of tequila shots if you want to _really_ get to know me.” The grin he flashed her this time was demurely side-stepped, as she turned to take a bottle off the shelf behind her, a curious urgency in her step, as though she didn’t want to turn her back to him.

Shanks watched as she lifted up on her toes, adorably short, before his gaze was seized by her tiny waist, entranced by the way the bodice of her dress hugged it, and the neat little bow of her apron where she’d tied it behind her, resting right over the soft curve of her—

She turned back, and his gaze lifted smoothly to hers as he asked her, “What’s your name?”

From her reaction, he might as well have asked her something intensely personal, which, to be fair, was entirely within his character, but he was really trying to respect her boundaries. Or in her case, the mile-long barricade she’d put up between them, complete with trebuchets and a moat for good measure.

“Should I guess?” he pressed, when she hadn’t answered, although made sure his smile held no real demands. “Or give you a nickname, maybe? What do you think of Brown Eyes?”

He watched as they narrowed a bit. She had the prettiest eyes he’d ever seen, large and doe-brown where they looked out from her heart-shaped face, her delicate features so fine it was like they’d been spun from glass, and her skin so fair and soft his fingers twitched with the sudden urge to touch it, to run his fingertip along the gentle bridge of her nose, dusted with the palest freckles.

Shanks blinked, and tried to remember what he’d asked her.

“Makino,” she murmured then, each syllable imparted like she was offering something far more intimate, and he didn’t know why he reacted like she had—the sound of it like it struck a chord within him.

“It suits you,” he said, before he could think, a sudden roughness to his voice that made him clear his throat. Then he blinked, not sure what he’d even meant by that.

Makino’s wary expression didn’t relent, and she said nothing as she poured him two fingers of whiskey, but pushing the glass across the counter towards him, had pulled her hand back before it could even get near his, and then promptly left him to drink alone.

And even if _skittish_ had been his first impression, it didn’t feel like an entirely accurate judgement, observing the tense line of her small shoulders as she swept past him, headed into her crowded bar like she was going into battle, and the way she wielded the tray in her hands, as though she wasn’t beyond turning on her heel and striding up with that determined little walk to challenge him to a duel.

Unsurprisingly, Shanks hoped she would.

And he might have left her alone—he wasn’t there to make her job harder when he’d already brought his whole crew for her to serve—but for some reason, he couldn’t keep his eyes from seeking her, tracking her passage through the room as she answered orders with impressive efficiency, the edge of a delicate sleeve catching his eye whenever she swept past, or the gleam of sea-glass in her dark hair where the lamplight coaxed it out, there and gone before he could catch it, like a siren in the reeds.

“Mind your eyes,” Ben said, having claimed a place on the barstool beside his, no doubt to get a front-row seat to him making a fool of himself. Shanks thought his warning might have been more effective without the underlying amusement.

“ _You_ mind your eyes,” he muttered, just as his were seized by the small figure fleeting past, a heavily laden tray balanced between her slender arms, only for several of his men to spring from their seats to offer their assistance.

Her smile was startled, and Shanks watched Makino politely decline the offers as she carefully deposited the tankards around the table, exchanging conversation with his crew. She was delightfully shy, but he saw her mouth moving as she spoke, and didn't catch their answer, but whatever it was it had her smile widening as she listened, before she surprised him by letting out a loud little laugh.

His stomach did a strange little flip.

The sound drew several smiles from around the room, although they weren't as obvious as he was, although their amusement at his reaction was less subtle.

Makino was talking, and he couldn't hear what she was saying over the din, but it didn't matter, finding it on her face where it shifted with her expressions. He’d never seen a face so animated, her feelings adorning it as she spoke, bared without even a hint of guile. When she smiled, it curved her eyes at the corners, big and brandy-brown, and framed gently with dark lashes.

He wondered what it would take to get one of those smiles directed at him.

She’d been trying her best to ignore him, but Shanks caught her gaze fleeting to him then, as though she'd sensed him watching her, before it darted in the other direction, taking her bodily with it. It was the least subtle attempt at fleeing he'd ever seen.

He looked at his first mate. “Am I being really obvious? I feel like I’m being really obvious. And is it just me or is it _hot_ in here?”

“It’s just you,” Ben said, the corner of his mouth curved around his cigarette. He'd asked her earlier if it was okay that he smoked inside, but where Shanks had expected him to be subject to the same scrutiny, her gentle allowance had held nothing of the sort. She'd only looked pleased he'd asked.

“And you are being obvious, but then I’ve never known you to be anything else," Ben added. Then with a glance in Makino’s direction, “A little young for you?”

Shanks pretended not to have heard him, although the jut of Ben’s mouth told him he was fooling exactly no one. And now that he’d mentioned it, he couldn’t get the thought out of his head, taking in her petite figure, and the innocent wideness of her eyes.

After a beat spent observing Makino navigating the crowded room, “How old do you think she is?” Shanks asked, while attempting to keep his voice mild. “Rough estimate.”

Ben considered her, although with far more subtlety than Shanks had managed. “Younger than twenty, although not by a lot.”

He tapped his fingers on the counter. If he was right, she was young, although he’d already figured that from looking at her, but it was something else to hear it in plain speech.

Maybe that was why she was so aggressively opposed to him, although it was a gentle aggression if he’d ever seen one, and she seemed to prefer keeping her distance to bringing her misgivings to him directly, but that made sense. Being in her profession, she probably got a lot of unwanted attention from older men, and if she’d read more than just friendliness from his attempt at striking up a conversation, she probably found it safer to avoid him than tell it to him straight.

And he couldn’t exactly claim complete innocence, but then he hadn’t been prepared to be so taken with her.

He observed her from across the room, her face baring all her feelings, which was what made it impossible to mistake what she felt about _him_ , and even if her initial fear was understandable—they _were_ pirates, and if she’d thought they’d arrived to raid the village, she’d been smart to be afraid—Shanks was disappointed to see her so stubbornly holding onto it. At least where he was concerned. Somehow, none of his men sparked the same reaction, even though he was far from the most threatening-looking pirate in the room.

Of course, there was one explanation, and he’d tried to pretend he hadn’t noticed, but with how open her face was, he would have had to be blind to not see that his scars put her off.

It was weird how self-conscious it made him. He wasn’t prone to the feeling, for starters, and it had been years since he’d been as aware of them as he was now, noticing how her eyes kept avoiding looking directly at them, even as she couldn't seem to help herself. And it wasn’t like he didn’t know they were there, and he’d long since come to terms with them as a natural feature of his face, but seeing her reaction to them made it unnervingly difficult to brush off the sensation that found him now, where they felt acutely _present_.

It had been a long time since he’d felt this way, and Shanks curled his fingers into his palm to keep from drawing his hair forward from where he’d raked it back from his face, or to reach for his hat where he’d put it down.

He didn't know why he was so bothered by her reaction. He didn’t usually care what people thought of him, or what kind of assumptions they made based on his first impression, but for some reason, her wariness made him want to do or say anything that would make her smile, or show that she wasn’t still afraid he might drag her behind the bar and rape her.

He shrugged off the uncomfortable feeling, which left him suddenly short of breath. But he was used to people assuming the worst; he just needed an opportunity to show her she had nothing to fear from him.

She was making her way back to the bar, and giving them a wide berth where they were seated at the counter. Shanks didn’t know if she was trying to be so obvious about it, or just couldn’t help it; it was hard to tell with someone so helplessly honest, but she also looked like she was trying her best not to cause offence, which he might have told her was a feat, and that ruder people had tried and failed with worse behaviour, but somehow, Shanks didn’t think the joke would be well received.

His eyes stayed on her as she worked, turning his glass around in his hand. Her full skirt wrapped around her legs as she walked, fleet-footed in a way that kept drawing his eyes. She was such a tiny thing—the top of her head wouldn’t even be level with his sternum, Shanks thought, and all of her was dainty and feminine, taking in her small hands, and the gentle poise where she held herself. The opposite of the ample curves of the women who usually caught his attention, but try as he might, he couldn't take his eyes off her.

A sheer cotton blouse tied at her elbows, the delicate strings brushing her bare forearms, and she wore a silk bodice the colour of primroses, snug around her modest chest, and that unbelievably small waist, which he knew already from looking at her that he could have circled with one hand. It took conscious effort to keep himself from asking if he could try.

“There she is,” he said instead, as she stepped back behind the bar. She seemed more relaxed keeping it between them, although not by a lot. “Stay a moment?” He was smiling, and saw where it dragged her gaze to his scars. And most people were put off by them at first, but they also usually got over it within a few minutes, but she seemed stubbornly resistant.

Those dainty hands smoothed over her apron, a nervous gesture that Shanks filed away for later. “Was there something you wanted, Captain?”

The stilted formality was cute, so clearly put off by his presence but still stubbornly determined to be polite, but Shanks held his tongue from telling her. “Just the pleasure of your company for five minutes.” Then with his most charming grin, as he leaned forward a bit, “How much would that be? I’d like to put up a tab.”

He’d meant for it to be gently flirting, but hadn’t been prepared for the feeling that flashed through her eyes, something that had for a second looked like fear, and he felt his own reaction to it like he’d been kicked in the solar plexus.

But he was nothing if not quick to recover. “A joke,” he amended, this time with a sheepish grin. “Not my best work, I’ll admit.”

Makino only watched him, her eyes fleeting to his scars again, like she couldn’t help it. Her hands were wringing the dish-rag like she was imagining his neck. Or maybe that was just his impression.

But then—“Are you usually funny, then?” she asked, such a primly savage put-down, there was a full second where Shanks just stared at her, caught completely off guard by the unexpected blow, so gently delivered he had to check that he’d heard her right.

From the stool beside him, Ben took that as a cue to voice his opinion. “If you ask him, he is,” he said, with a tone that left no doubt of his own thoughts on the matter. “I’ve been trying to tell him that people laughing _at_ him and _with_ him are two different things, but nothing ever lands.” He shot Shanks a look. “Like most of his jokes.”

Shanks was about to express his betrayal when he caught the startled smile alighting across her face, like she’d failed to hold it in. And then he felt suddenly recklessly inclined to make a terrible joke, if only in the hopes that it might keep it on her face, which for the briefest moment held none of the wariness she’d shown since she’d first laid eyes on him.

Then their eyes met, and the moment was over, as though a wall had gone right back up, and even with her face hiding absolutely nothing, her presence was carefully guarded. Shanks felt it, but didn't prod too hard, lest she noticed. She had the signature of an untrained observation user, but even if she didn't know how to actively use her haki, that didn't mean she wouldn't sense the intrusion.

But Ben's humour at his expense seemed to have had some effect, because when she left the bar next, her shoulders had lost some of their tension, although it was still a long way from seeing her relaxed around him.

“Thanks,” Shanks said, when she was out of earshot.

Ben shrugged. “You need all the help you can get.”

“I’m letting that slide because I actually have no idea what I’m doing this time,” Shanks said. “Did I say something to offend her?” He’d gone over their first exchange several times, but nothing stood out. She’d been miffed they’d dragged so much dirt onto her floors, but his sandals had not been the worst culprits, and she seemed to have forgiven his crew.

Ben seemed to think about it, but then, “Not that I heard. But you can come off as a little intense.”

Shanks couldn’t exactly deny that, and so he didn’t. “Still,” he said, and held himself back from seeking her this time, fixing his gaze instead on his empty tumbler. “I don’t know how to put her at ease.” He was usually good at winning people over, and every person required a different approach, but he'd always had a knack for figuring out which key went into which lock. This was the first time he'd felt so thoroughly thrown off his game.

Ben slid him a look, his brows dipping a bit. “You usually like a challenge.”

Raking his fingers through his hair as he pushed it back, Shanks sighed. He didn't touch the scars. “Yeah, but I have no idea how to even approach this one. I’ve already tried three different angles, but she’s still carrying that serving tray around like a shield.”

To prove his point, Makino returned, released from the crowded room as she swept towards the bar with those determined steps, the serving tray tucked against her stomach, her small hands white-capped where they gripped the rounded edge.

Shanks could only shake his head. Even expecting a certain amount of wariness towards a crew of visiting pirates, he had no idea what he’d done that had put her off so much.

But he realised then that he didn’t know her history, and resolved not to judge her reaction when he didn’t know what lay behind it. That it might have nothing to do with him personally, but that she’d learned the hard way what common hospitality might be interpreted as from the wrong patron.

His grip tightened around the glass in his hand, and the anger took him by surprise at the thought of someone touching her like that.

He knew it had transferred to his face, feeling how the furrow of his brow pulled at the scars, and tried to smooth it away before she could notice. But even if he succeeded in schooling his expression into something a little less fearsome, the feeling refused to leave him, observing her small shape, her gentle hands and movements as she tapped ale into glasses and wiped down the counter, all without breaking stride, as though working was keeping her mind occupied.

She very studiously wasn’t looking at him, even though she knew he was watching, and it might have been endearing, Shanks thought, if her shyness had had a different cause.

He decided to try a different tactic. If he could just get to know her, maybe he could figure out what had her so on edge, or at the very least convince her that she had nothing to fear from _him_. Whatever else she thought of him, he didn’t want her to fear that.

She had her back turned to him, in the middle of mixing an old fashioned for Ben, when, “I make you nervous,” Shanks said, and saw her freeze, but he’d figured that if a careful approach hadn’t worked, maybe a straightforward advance would.

There was a second where he thought she would ignore him, when she turned around. And he’d caught her off guard, he saw, but then she probably hadn't expected him to bring it up. Maybe she’d thought his ego wouldn’t handle hearing it, and that he’d rather ignore her obvious rejection of his careful advances than acknowledge them for what they were.

Well. Shanks loved nothing more than to prove people wrong. Except maybe that adorable look of surprise she had on her face now, as she stumbled to say, “You’re not—”

“Why do I make you nervous?”

She couldn’t hide that she was struggling to find an answer, although he didn’t know if that was better than if she hadn’t missed a beat, but, “You’re a pirate,” Makino said at length, to which Shanks only raised a brow, and looked over his shoulder at his crew, all of them unabashedly eavesdropping.

“So is literally every guy in this bar, and yet I’m the only one who’s making you visibly uncomfortable.” When she didn’t reply, “Is it the hair?” he asked, only half-joking. “Because I can’t really help that. It's also kind of a trademark, and would be somewhat detrimental to my reputation if I changed it now." He grinned, and before he could consider the wisdom of attempting a suggestive joke, however mild, "I'm not saying I wouldn't, but I'd just like it confirmed that it's what's putting you off.”

But the implication seemed to have passed her by, and Makino didn’t answer, but he caught the flick of her gaze to the left side of his face, confirming his suspicions.

His smile eased. “My scars, then,” he said, and saw her look away. “Ah. There we go, now we’re getting somewhere.” When she didn’t look at him, he attempted a disarming tone, “I’m not offended. I know they make me look like I’ve got nothing but bad intentions, but I swear they’re just for show.”

Her eyes lifted back to him, but Shanks did nothing, just allowed her to see.

“How did you get them?” Makino surprised him by asking.

He knew his grin didn’t succeed in hiding the edge in it. “Oh, now I think you need to get me _much_ drunker to get that story out of me,” he chuckled. “But I’m amenable. In the meantime, let’s just say it was a freak accident.”

Her face told him she didn’t buy that for shit, but then he hadn’t expected her to. But he hadn’t been lying; it wasn’t a story he shared freely, even with unbelievably lovely and curious barmaids whose big brown eyes could have compelled him to do any number of foolish things.

“How about this,” Shanks said then, meeting her eyes, and was glad she didn't flinch this time. “You tell me something about yourself, and I’ll tell you something in return.” He grinned. “It’s hard not to like me once you get to know me.”

She pursed her lips. God, they looked soft. He wondered what it would feel like to kiss them.

He killed the thought before it could show on his face.

“It’s not that I don’t like you,” Makino began, the slight stutter betraying that she was flustered, although it was a step up from barely standing the sight of him.

“So you admit that you do like me?”

She opened her mouth, then closed it. Shanks beamed.

“He’s used that one on me, too,” Ben supplied from beside him, only for the rest of the room to raise their glasses with chorusing agreement.

“Hey, you all came around in the end,” Shanks called back, grinning, although stuck his tongue out for good measure.

Makino huffed, although this time, the smile stayed on her face. “So is this what you do? Entrap people into begrudgingly admitting that they like you until they stick around?”

“Yes I believe it’s this thing called ‘friendship’,” Shanks said, before motioning between them. “I’ve been trying to get something going here, too, I don’t know if you’ve noticed.”

“I’ve noticed,” Makino said gently.

Shanks flashed her his widest grin, and saw how she looked away, and couldn’t hold back his own excitement this time when he realised it was to hide a blush.

“I’ve been meaning to apologise,” he said then, and saw how it drew her eyes back. The roses in her cheeks were faint, but the colour of her bodice brought them out. “For our rude entrance earlier. We didn’t mean to scare you. I realise now it’s not a good look, times being what they are.”

Makino worried her apron, before placing her hands gently on the bartop, still at a safe distance from his, but to Shanks it felt suddenly significant, although not as much as the gentle forgiveness in her voice when she said, “It’s quite alright.”

He tried not to let it show that he was fishing, even as he asked, “Not a lot of pirates around these parts, I take it?”

If she realised, she didn’t let on, but then Shanks thought he would have seen it on her face if she had. “You would be the first in my lifetime,” Makino said.

He couldn’t help himself. “And how many years is that? Roughly speaking.”

This time, the slightest narrowing of her eyes suggested she knew why he was asking, but, “Nineteen,” she answered calmly.

Ben's rough estimate had been right. And it wasn’t as young as he’d feared, even as it was _young_. Shanks felt suddenly staggered by the difference, spanning nearly a decade.

He also wondered why that number nagged at him, as though there was something he was supposed to remember.

He forgot what he'd been thinking about when Makino smiled. “What?” she asked, no doubt at his complete failure to reply. There was a gentle challenge in her eyes when she pressed, “Do you think I’m too young to run a bar?”

From the slight lift of her chin, he wondered if she’d heard that before, but his answer was so immediate, it startled her demurely stubborn look right off her face, “Are you kidding? I’ve been watching you all evening, and you’re the most efficient proprietor I’ve ever seen. I’ve met bar owners three times your age with half the skill, and none of the knack for it you have.”

He saw from her wide eyes that she hadn't expected that, and realised a second later that he’d let slip past his brain-to-mouth filter the admission that he'd been watching her work.

“I’m impressed, I mean,” he was quick to add, in an attempt to regain his footing, although wondered how successful he was, from the grin Ben wasn’t even trying to hide. But before he could shove his foot any further into his mouth, “You already own a bar,” Shanks said. “When I was nineteen, I wasn’t even allowed into bars.”

Her confusion tugged at her brows gently. “I thought the legal drinking age was eighteen,” Makino pointed out.

“It is,” Ben said, before Shanks could answer. “He means he was banned.”

This time when her gaze shot to his, it was with so much genuine intrigue, Shanks clean forgot to tell Ben off for usurping his story, so captivated by the sight.

“It sounds worse than it is,” he assured her, his grin sheepish. “It was only a few bars.”

“South Blue,” Ben said.

She frowned. “A few bars in South Blue?”

“No,” Yasopp interjected, having come up behind them, his arms thrown around their shoulders. Shanks held his tongue from pointing out that he had no business butting into the telling of events that had occurred before he’d even joined his crew. “ _All_ the bars in South Blue. It was an ocean-wide ban.” Then to Shanks with a grin, “Didn’t you say they still won’t let you into certain establishments there?”

“It’s been a few years since I tried,” Shanks said, and cut him a patient look as Yasopp made to retreat, grinning all the way back to his table, having apparently come up to the bar for the sole purpose of voicing his two berri.

When he turned back to Makino, she was gaping. “What?” Shanks asked, encouraged by the fact that her shock had such a benign cause, and that it wasn’t anything darker.

She closed her mouth delicately, before she said, “I don’t know if I want to ask, given that you’re currently drinking in _my_ establishment.”

His grin was all innocence, although not without sincerity when he told her, “No need to worry. I’ve cleaned up my act since then.”

That same curiosity from before brightened her eyes, like a hunger she couldn’t help, wanting to press him about a number of things, Shanks suspected, but, “Long ago, then?” Makino asked, with a mildness that might have been convincing if her face hadn’t betrayed it.

He couldn’t take his eyes off it, and couldn’t help the stupid skip his heart did, noticing the smile in her eyes when she looked at him now. “A good few years,” he said at length, as he spared a thought to how she’d react, and why it mattered so much. “Eight. Ish.”

She arched a delicate brow. “Ish?”

“Okay, eight,” he chuckled, even as his eyes glittered. “Twist my arm, why don’t you.”

She ducked her head to hide her smile, and he didn’t know what to read from her reaction to the realisation that he was a good deal older than her, but Shanks didn’t ask if she was bothered by the age-difference, recognising that there was no way to ask that without it telling her why he wanted to know, and by extension, that he’d been wanting to take her to bed since she’d first turned those big brown eyes on him.

But even as he thought about it, he felt the difference, and with any other barmaid, he might have been more forward—hell, they might already have made it to round two in the storeroom by now—but with her, he didn’t want to push too hard, or say something that would make her back off.

He wanted, Shanks realised, to get to know her. And he had no idea why it mattered so much, only that it did.

“I meant what I said,” he told her then, opting for an honesty that hopefully wouldn't be too much. “You’re incredible.”

Her blush tinted her cheeks, a bit deeper than before. It was a shockingly satisfying sight, and more so for the flustered smile that accompanied it. “I’m trying my best.”

“Doing a lot more than trying from where I’m sitting,” Shanks said, and when she looked at him next, she did so without fear.

He thought it was a surprise it didn’t knock him off his barstool.

Her eyes swept across him then, as though she was finally allowing herself to look at him properly, and he caught how they lingered on his chest where his shirt hung open. He resisted the cheeky impulse to flex one of his pecs, just to see how she’d react.

But he’d worked so hard to get to this point, he didn’t want to overstep now that she was finally warming up to him.

“So what brings you to Dawn Island?” Makino asked him then. She wasn’t wringing the dish-rag anymore, but had folded it neatly. “And here of all places? Just the waterfront at Goa Port is lined with bigger taverns, and Hightown has a whole district with tap-houses."

Looking at her endearingly wide eyes, filled with a curiosity that made him feel like he’d discovered some kind of hidden treasure, Shanks didn’t tell her that he couldn’t have cared less if the fountains in Goa were overflowing with ale.

His smile crooked, and he saw how it drew her gaze to the scar on his upper lip, which was a fiercely welcome change, especially given what he found in her eyes now. “I don’t really care how big the port is if there’s good company,” he said, which was true, but he allowed the words to be heard for what they were, holding her eyes where she stood behind the bar.

Then, his smile warming, “I go where the sea takes me,” Shanks said. “I’ve found it’s usually how you discover the best places.”

She was trying very hard not to be flattered, he saw, and grinned. “We spotted this port, and I thought it looked like a good place to dock. Peaceful, and out of the way. I was looking to kick back for a bit. Work on my tan.” He looked around her bar, taking in its natural warmth, the nearly organised cherrywood shelves and the polished brass chandelier. She'd lit a fire in the open hearth earlier, and it warmed the room, deepening the colour of the walls and the wood, but it wasn't the furnishings that was responsible for the atmosphere it had, Shanks thought, feeling it; a peace that instinctively made your shoulders relax.

His eyes found hers where she stood behind the bar, natural in the role, and yet unlike any bar owner he'd ever met, with her gentle poise and soft colours, primrose and sea-glass. “I just wanted to have a drink and relax," he said, honestly, although could think of several other things he wanted now, and tried not to fixate on the soft cupid's bow of her lips. "I didn’t mean to cause you any trouble.”

There was an apology there, and he saw that she’d caught it, and was glad when she lowered her gaze with a smile.

Then her eyes met his, and the clever gleam in them took him by surprise, although not as much as the soft retort when she told him, with so much demure authority, “Well then can I get you anything, Captain, or are you going to keep hogging my attention and hindering my business? Unless you actually put up a tab for my company, I have other customers to serve.”

His grin revealed all his feelings, Shanks knew, but forgot to worry what she'd find in it, and to think before he spoke as he chuckled, “Oh, my girl, you’ve got to be careful swinging that kind of cheek around. I’ll have you know I’m a worthy opponent.”

But where he’d expected another glib rebuttal, he was surprised to find her drawing back. “Don’t,” she said, as he blinked. The clever gleam had gone from her eyes, leaving them suddenly vulnerable. “I’m not yours.”

His expression smoothed out, leaving no smile. “Of course you’re not,” he amended. “It's just an endearment. I’m very free with those, you should hear what I call my guys, but I forget that it can come off as a little aggressive. It’s all from a good place, I promise.” He tried for a bashful grin, although let it soften when it didn’t remove the gentle frown that had furrowed between her brows.

“Makino-san,” he said instead. He didn’t like the way her name sounded in his voice like that, so awkwardly polite, but he was sincere when he asked her, “Forgive me?”

Her eyes softened a bit, although not enough to take the wariness out of them, and her voice was painfully gentle when she told him, “There’s nothing to forgive, Captain.”

Then she’d walked out from behind the bar, ostensibly to answer an order, but Shanks saw from her quicker steps that what she wanted was to get away.

Ben's gaze followed her, his brow furrowed in thought, but not in the mood to be told he should think before he spoke, Shanks didn't ask.

He considered his empty tumbler. He’d forgotten to ask her for a refill, but resolved to do it when she had an available moment, and hoped he could take the chance to talk to her some more. He still didn’t know what it was that made her so afraid of him, but he wanted to find out.

It didn’t take her long to do a sweep of the room. Even if this had to be more customers that she was used to, she handled it admirably, always keeping an eye out for drinks that needed refilling and glasses that needed collecting. She’d been washing them while she worked instead of letting them pile up, and shouldering out from the door to the kitchen, Shanks watched as she shook the water from her hands before wiping them on her apron, a few suds left, clinging to her slender fingers. He brutally shoved down the thought before it could find him, wondering what they’d feel like around him.

Catching her eye as she swept back behind the bar, it was with a smile that he said, “I was going to ask you for a refill, but you collected my glass when you bustled past earlier. You were so focused I didn’t want to break your concentration.”

Embarrassment flushed across her face. “Oh, I’m sorry—”

“Hey,” Shanks chuckled, and kept himself from reaching over the bartop for her hands, startled when he realised he’d been about to do it, and smoothly turned it into resting his elbows on the counter. “No need for that. I just don’t want to give you extra work, but I’d love another glass of whiskey when you have the time.”

If nothing else, the humble request softened some of her stubborn nervousness, as Makino nodded. “Coming right up.”

Shanks watched as she made to reach for one of the crystal tumblers on the shelf, lifting up on her toes with a grace that kept him momentarily entranced as she hooked her fingers around the nearest glass, and had turned to put it on the counter when it slipped from her hand, still wet from washing up.

It shattered on the bartop just as she reached out to grab it, and Shanks heard her sucking in a breath as she sliced her finger on one of the pieces, just as he drew in a hiss through his teeth, lifting his right hand as Makino’s shot to her lips, to stop the blood that had sprung forth.

Their eyes met.

The ones looking out from her face were wide with horror, although not because of the shock that had widened his—no, Shanks realised, watching the emotions bared by her expression, understanding hitting him like someone had yanked his footing out from underneath him. She had already known.

Her face revealed all her feelings, her beautiful features reflecting them back at him, but the one that had him forgetting everything else was the _fear_ that deepened her eyes now, wiping away all traces of the softness he’d worked all evening to coax out.

His whole crew had gone dead silent, all of them watching, and Shanks felt their collective realisation, as visceral as his own had been.

He stared at her, his eyes wide. And he didn’t know if it was the realisation of what she was that did it, but he _felt_ it then, the knowledge as sudden as it was unshakeable. And it was the invisible cut in his finger, but other things, too—the lingering bruise on his knee from two days ago when it had felt like he’d bumped into something; the week-old grief that kept resurfacing at odd moments, to catch him off guard; and the gentle ache in his muscles now, as though from a long night of being on his feet. Things that had become such an integral part of him he thought of them as his own, but he knew now, looking at Makino’s wide-sprung eyes, that they were _hers_.

Without thinking, he’d risen from his barstool, and saw where it snapped her loose of her shock, making her take a step back, her eyes darting from his to the pirates behind him, her reaction like a doe caught in a clearing full of hunters.

And suddenly it all made sense—the reason she'd guarded herself so fiercely, and why she hadn’t been able to stop looking at his scars. She’d known within catching sight of him who he was, and she had been _afraid_.

Before he could open his mouth—to say what, he didn’t know, as long as it could take that terror out of her eyes—Makino had lifted a fistful of her skirts and bolted out from behind the counter and through the doors faster than even he could react.

The sound of them swinging in her wake was the only noise in Party’s suddenly deathly quiet common room, and Shanks could only stare after her, for a moment so dumbstruck he couldn’t even move to respond, his hand held before him, elevated slightly even though there was no blood to stop. The phantom cut in his finger throbbed, the sensation like a string had been tethered between them, tugging with little jerks in the direction she’d gone.

He felt her presence, but there was no denying the difference now, as though his realisation had cemented it, the binding complete, like the final tug of a sailor’s knot, cinching it together.

He’d moved to follow her before he could consider the wisdom of his own actions, knowing only that he had to see her, the need unlike any he’d ever known, now that he _knew_. As though now that he was aware of what she was to him, there was no ignoring the bond.

His long strides ate up the ground, and his heart was beating a mile a minute as he pushed through the bat-wing doors and onto the brightly lit porch, beyond which the night sky lay heavily over the rooftops of the fishing cottages. It lurched against his chest, so hard it hurt. Shanks wondered idly if she could feel it.

Left within the bar, there was a long beat wherein no one spoke.

Then from the back, a single voice rose up—

“Finally!”


End file.
